Raising the Stakes

“I really can’t say too much, Mr. Kitteridge, but since you’re her husband, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that this involves settling the estate of your wife’s grandfather.”

“That’s nuts. Dawn ain’t got no…”

Kitteridge stopped in midsentence. Bingo, Gray thought, and waited.

“Are you sayin’ somebody left my wife money?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kitteridge,” Gray said politely. “I have to meet with your wife.”

“Yeah. Okay. Uh, where are you? I mean, are you comin’ to town?”

“Actually I’m already here. I’m in a gas station on the corner of Main and Liberty.”

“Uh-huh. Ah, there’s a diner across the way. See it?”

Gray peered out the window. A red neon sign blinked the words Victory Diner through diagonal sheets of rain. “Yes, I see it.”

“Go on in, get us a booth. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Be sure your wife is with you,” Gray said, as if he had no idea Dawn Kitteridge had flown the coop.

Kitteridge hung up. Gray let out a breath, checked for nonexistent traffic and drove across the road to the diner.

Almost twenty minutes later, he was nursing a cup of inky black liquid the waitress had poured him when the door opened. A man stepped inside. He was maybe six-three with a rugged, work-hardened body and a face Gray figured men would call nasty and some women would call strong. The guy shook himself like a wet dog as the door swung shut, thumbed an oily-looking lock of black hair from his forehead and scanned the room even though Gray and the waitress were the only people in it.

“Coffee,” he barked in the general direction of the counter. He walked toward Gray with a loping swagger. “You Baron?”

Gray got to his feet. “Yes.” He forced himself to hold out his hand. He had the irrational feeling he’d want to wipe it off after Kitteridge shook it. “Harman Kitteridge?”

Kitteridge looked at Gray’s hand as if he’d never seen a lawyer’s hand without a subpoena in it before. Then he grasped it and fixed his eyes on Gray’s.

“That’s my name.”

He squeezed Gray’s hand hard. Harder, when Gray didn’t flinch. What Gray really wanted to do was laugh. Was he actually being invited to have a pissing contest in a run-down diner on Main Street, U.S.A.? He was going to have some interesting tales to tell when he got back to New York.

Kitteridge grunted. Gray wasn’t sure if it was a sign of dissatisfaction or pleasure. He let go of Gray’s hand, slid into the opposite banquette and sat back while the waitress served his coffee. He poured in cream, added half a dozen heaping teaspoons of sugar, stirred the coagulating mess and licked the spoon before dropping it on the table.

“What’s this all about, Baron?”

“It’s about your wife’s grandfather’s estate.”

“What about it?”

“Sorry. I can’t discuss it with anyone but her.” Gray looked past Kitteridge, as if he expected to see Dawn standing near the door. “Where is she? I told you to bring her with you.”

Minutes passed. Kitteridge’s stare was filled with venom. Finally he drank some coffee, then put down his cup.

“She ain’t here.”

“Where is she, then?”

“Listen, man, my wife is out of town. You want to waste this whole trip?” Kitteridge grinned, showing off sharp, yellowing teeth. “Or you want me to think you always hang around places like this diner and Queen City?”

Okay. Kitteridge wasn’t really stupid. Gray could only hope he was greedy, greedy enough to swallow the story he was about to tell him. It was one part truth, nine parts fantasy, and—he hoped—sufficient to get information without giving any.

“Well, I guess it won’t hurt if I fill you in on some of the details. This is about Ben Lincoln.”

“Who the hell is Ben Lincoln?”